


Closing the Eyes of Memory

by mandykaysfic



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, neuropressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandykaysfic/pseuds/mandykaysfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy can't sleep. Spock has a cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

McCoy sat in his office. He stared at the blinking computer screen. Lines of text scrolled by, but he didn’t see them. He was due back on duty in less than four hours and he should have been asleep in his quarters, but the attack of insomnia was bad tonight. Five of the crew had perished yesterday; two had been members of his nursing staff and it was just that little bit harder to lay them to rest in his mind. He finally decided to take his own medical advice although he had no fondness for taking sleeping draughts despite his regular prescription of them for others and use something to help him sleep. The alcohol he would have preferred unfortunately needed to be downed in quantity to achieve the same effect. He opened the drawers one after the other and rifled through the contents. A rapid search of the remainder of his office was equally fruitless. He cursed softly. He’d have to get something from the main dispensary 

Sickbay hummed quietly. The machines were never totally silent. The night nurse checked the displays above each patient. McCoy noted she made sure to physically contact them all in some way. She looked up as he passed and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“Any problems?” he responded.

“No, Doctor.”

“Carry on.” He motioned distractedly as he spotted Spock and M’Benga conversing in the corner. 

What was Spock doing in Sickbay at this time? Even he needed more than four hours sleep. Fortunately what McCoy sought was not in close proximity to them. He was not in the mood to discus the answer personal questions as to why he was still in Sickbay from either of them. Logically – he harrumphed under his breath at the word – he knew deep inside it was unlikely either of them would say anything, but his tiredness was making him irrational, and he wanted - he needed to cling to those thoughts to keep the grief at bay for now. McCoy palmed the canister and walked quickly away, intent on making his quarters before anyone else spoke to him. 

He sat on his bed, the loaded hypospray in his hand. He hefted it several times from palm to palm and then tossed it aside. He felt the place between his shoulder blades where a pair of dark eyes bored into his back as he'd hurried out of Sickbay. He lay in the dark and let thoughts of their owner help keep the specters of the crew at bay.

 

Twenty-four hours made little difference to the dead. McCoy still couldn't sleep. He'd even resorted to assisting with the repairs. Physical work to tire the body…he knew all the tricks. Even Sickbay couldn't keep him sufficiently distracted. It was always like this when they were close. It would simply take time, but he always had to try to shorten it. Tired doctors made mistakes.

The botany lab beckoned; Sulu's latest hybrid plant was flowering and Johnson had an experiment in genetic manipulation involving fungi and disease-resistant kelp that would take some time for him to check out its progress. He hoped it would prove dull enough to help him sleep.

The lab was a restful place to be during the graveyard shift, he decided. Almost an hour passed before anyone joined him. 

“Doctor McCoy,” murmured Spock in greeting.

“Spock.” McCoy's nod softened the acerbic tone a little, and he turned quickly back to the screen that displayed Johnson's current data.

Silence reigned for several minutes until McCoy burst into speech. “What are you doing here, Spock?”

“I am assisting Ensign Ryan with her attempts to propagate her brochelia. They bear remarkable similarities to a Vulcan species, the kloonasia.”

“Now?”

“The kloonasia pollination takes place at night.”

“And you're – forget it. I was just catching up with Johnson's kelp experiment.”

“Indeed.”

“I'm done now. I'll be leaving you to your work. Goodnight, then.” And again McCoy felt Spock's gaze upon him until the doors closed.

 

Two more nights with very little restful sleep. His medical knowledge helped him disguise the bags under his eyes and mask the other effects of insomnia. He was sleeping longer, although now it was dark eyes and a pair of pointed ears that disturbed his rest, rather than his nurses and the other members of the crew who joined the line of those he couldn't save.

And it seemed no matter where he went to tire himself out, Spock always turned up. Tonight McCoy decided he would outwit the Vulcan and simply walk the corridors. He was one deck above his own when he was joined by Spock.

“I've noticed you seem to be having trouble sleeping, Doctor.” Spock got in first and effectively halted McCoy's outburst before he started.

“I – why would you say that?” He should have expected the eyebrow, though McCoy, groaning inwardly at Spock's predictable expression. He was simply too tired to enjoy sparring now, too tired to keep the irritation from his voice. “Yes, if you must know. I've been having a little difficulty sleeping recently, but I'm fine now. Just need to finish my walk.”

“I believe I may be able to assist you.”

McCoy stopped in his tracks. As he turned to face Spock, his arms came up and crossed his chest. “Assist me?”

Spock stood at ease, his hands interlaced behind his back. “Your dislike of self-medication is almost as well known as your dislike of transporters.” He ignored McCoy's snort. “There is a Vulcan technique -,”

“I don't need you inside my mind.” He didn't. There were things there best kept private.

“Not the mind meld. An earlier technique that fell into disuse as Vulcans became more proficient at the meld.”

“And it doesn't involve scrabbling round in anyone's thoughts?”

“That is correct.”

McCoy turned and began walking slowly along the corridor again, barely conscious of his relief. “So what's this technique called?”

“Neuropressure.”

“Neuropressure? Neuropressure. Can't say I've read about it in any of the journals.”

“You wouldn't have.”

“So it's some big Vulcan secret then, like -,”

“No. it is simply an old drug-free remedy that assists in the resolution of insomnia, amongst other things.

“Other things?”

“Headaches, fatigue...they respond well to the application of neuropressure.”

“Like acupressure then?”

The conversation continued into the turbolift and along the corridor until they halted outside McCoy's quarters.

“Shouldn't we be heading to Sickbay?” Somehow McCoy found he had agreed Spock could administer a neuropressure treatment that night.

“Your quarters will suffice. I shall return. You should change into something comfortable while I am gone.”

McCoy stripped out of his uniform and donned a pair of sweatpants and a clean white tee shirt. He hastily tidied the living area and was straightening the cushions when Spock returned. He stepped aside when Spock unrolled what appeared to be a flat foam camping pallet and answered Spock's wordless question with a silent nod of his own in the direction of his bedroom. He was still contemplating the mattress when Spock emerged, clad only in loose fitting pants of his own.

“You will need to remove your shirt, Doctor.”

McCoy turned quizzical blue eyes on Spock. He'd agreed to this, hadn't he, even though the shirtless state apparently required by the procedure hadn't been mentioned. He dragged his gaze from where it had lowered to Spock's torso and quickly turned his back. He pulled his shirt over his head and tried to clear his mind of the pictures that formed now, now when he wasn't being Spock's physician. 

Thankfully, the first instruction was to sit with his back to Spock. After the uncontrollable shiver at Spock's first touch, McCoy concentrated on memorizing the technique. Thumbs and index fingers webbed around the scapula, finding the landmark of the space between the seventh and eighth vertebrae McCoy realized, then he felt the localized pressure, just so far out from the centre and higher up – that would be the fifth thoracic. The light circular movement seemed to search for something when suddenly it was obvious Spock reached the spot he sought. There was a subtle change in amount of pressure. McCoy didn't even try and stop the groan of pleasure that escaped his lips.

He groaned again when the pressure that had worked its way up various points along his upper back eased when Spock reached the base of his neck. “You didn't have to stop yet.”

“That was just the first posture.”

McCoy found himself lying on his side, mirroring Spock's posture, with one of Spock's feet clasped in his hands. His fingers and thumb on one hand contacted the medial and lateral bones of the foot. With the right pressure it wasn't ticklish and he followed the quietly spoken instructions for working around the Achilles tendon with his other hand easily enough. Despite the fact that most of his doctoring was not as hands-on as this, he found his fingertips were sensitive enough to read the changes in Spock's body and a wave of pleasure coursed through him at doing it right. 

It was somehow easy to talk to Spock like this. Not that he didn't enjoy their more usual mode of communication, but this was a side to Spock he wouldn't mind seeing more often, and he let the hypnotic quality of the faintly-accented voice soothe him even more. He wouldn’t mind the chance to learn this technique properly; he could offer to do the same for Spock, who was equally as reluctant to use drugs as he was.

There was a third posture. McCoy found himself on his back. Spock knelt behind his head. Suddenly this one was a whole lot less soothing when Spock rose up gracefully and leant over McCoy, torso above torso, and worked out the located points around the hips with strong fingers. The maneuver placed Spock’s groin more than a mite close to McCoy’s face and he hurriedly closed his eyes, for the loose pants did not hide the response Spock’s body had to the neuropressure. This time he suppressed the throaty moan that tried to force its way through lips he kept firmly shut and he hoped the resultant strangled hum didn’t sound odd. It’s just a normal reaction to the therapy. He told you that. It’s not you he’s reacting to. Will-o-the-wisp thoughts played tag while doctor and patient modes warred in his brain. 

Fortunately for his state of mind, the session ended with McCoy positioned on his stomach on his own bed, allowing for the deeper spinal muscles to be worked. His confusion mostly faded leaving his arousal to simmer pleasantly as he drifted into semi-consciousness.

“You should sleep well now.” 

“Thanks, Spock.” 

“Neuropressure usually requires a number of sessions for successful resolution of the problem. I would be pleased to assist you for as long as it takes.”

McCoy opened his eyes and stared into Spock’s for a long moment, then nodded.

He listened to Spock dress in the living area and take his leave, and McCoy slept, not well, but better, and perhaps the future episodes of insomnia that would inevitably plague him need not be ridden out alone.

END


	2. Chapter 2

2259 hours ticked over and right at 2300 McCoy's doorbell chimed. 

“Enter,” he called. He gave the living area a quick once over. Spock's foam pallet was already unrolled and in position. He was wearing only a clean pair of drawstring pants. Spock was right on time.

“We will begin with the first posture,” said Spock after he had changed out of his uniform and ascertaining McCoy had not experienced anything in the way of unusual headaches or other unusual symptoms. The dead had still clamoured for retribution or remembrance at odd times during the day and he yet hadn’t attempted to sleep. He did not expect to be cured after just one session; it seemed more sensible to try after Spock’s fingers worked their magic.

McCoy sat with his back to Spock, eagerly anticipating the warm fingers working the points on his back. He leaned back, trying to force a little more pressure into a couple of knotty areas in his muscles. He felt Spock immediately ease off, swapping the circular movements to a long light stroke. It still felt good even though it didn't evoke as intense sensations so McCoy was able to listen carefully while Spock explained that irrespective of how it appeared, neuropressure was not a massage technique designed to remove trigger points, but rather a system that worked on specific reflexes, regardless of the physical state of the muscles beneath the skin. He found listening to Spock's mellifluous tones an equally pleasant sensation. When he eased his shoulders back into the slightly forward curve, Spock returned to his earlier technique. There was no mirror for McCoy to observe Spock's frown of concentration relax into an expression of satisfaction when he groaned out his pleasure with less restraint than the previous evening.

It felt good, even better than a massage. He'd never realized those parts of his spine were so sensitive. Spock was working closer to the ribs, where the tiny costotransverse joints between the rib heads and transverse processes of the dorsal vertebrae were located. There were a multitude of ligaments, muscles and nerves there, but the doctor in him kept forgetting to take notes as the man floated in the haze of sensory stimulation. He could feel the accumulated tension leave his body as Spock's hands swept across his shoulder muscles, following the direction of the trapezius muscle fibers, and then the unique finger technique of neuropressure found the reflexes in his neck and he again sighed out his pleasure. There was a seemingly familiar squeeze at the base of his neck, but Spock's voice murmured reassuringly in his ear, unnecessarily as it happened, for Leonard McCoy trusted Spock implicitly. He promised himself a further discussion on the relationship between that oh-so-useful neck pinch and the technique of neuropressure at a later date and gave himself back to the experience. Again, it ended too soon, but knowing there was to come mitigated the disappointment, especially knowing he would get to share in the second posture. 

“You will now perform the first posture on me.” 

“What?” exclaimed McCoy when Spock stopped him from lying on his side.

“I am sure you were taking mental notes during the proceedings.”

“Well, yes, but...”

Spock turned and presented his back. He settled comfortably into his position, drew a cleansing breath and relaxed. “I have every confidence in your technique.”

McCoy managed to keep from cracking his knuckles and rubbed his hands together a time or two instead. There were no scanners to rely on here. He wondered briefly how he was going to strike the balance between the pure, uninvolved professionalism of a therapeutic masseur and the intimacy required by neuropressure without stepping over those bounds that Spock had achieved when he felt more than simple relaxation...

Quickly, he placed his palms on Spock's back, going straight into the cupping of the inferior angles of the scapulae. He slid his thumbs over and up a spinal level or two, aiming for a gently firm pressure. He added in the circular movements and moved his thumbs up and down a little, not exactly sure what he was looking for, but trying for a close approximation of what he felt Spock had done to him. He worked from the eighth to the fifth vertebral level again, and then remembered to move laterally just a fraction. There it was; a subtle difference in the feel of the tissues beneath the skin. His touch firmed confidently and when a rumbling groan issued from Spock's lips, a smile settled over McCoy's face. 

This technique was just as good for the therapist, decided McCoy as he worked over the lean back. Spock had the typical Vulcan ectomorphic body type combined with the muscle tone that Starfleet fitness requirements produced. His smile widened when he found the reflex points at the base of the neck and the suboccipital regions with ease. As his thumbs worked along the base of Spock's skull, the nerve endings in his fingertips took in the silky texture of the black hair that gleamed softly in the dimly lit room. Eventually, the movements of his thumbs slowed. It felt like the right thing to do, even though he could not have explained how he knew that posture had finished.

“Very good, Doctor. Now let us take our positions for the next posture.”

There was something about feet, well, Spock's feet in particular, thought McCoy as he worked around Spock's heel. Like the previous night and in contrast to the first posture, the men conversed quietly while they used fingers and thumbs in the circular pattern over the various points that were surprisingly numerous for such a small area. Surely Spock's pulse was a trifle faster than normal, as the doctor in McCoy made a brief appearance when he felt the dorsal pedis pulse. He was sure his own had speeded up as the time for the third posture approached. Too, Spock would know anyway how McCoy's body was responding. It made sense not to worry about anything and just let his body do what it would. When Spock took his hands away, McCoy immediately rolled onto his back.

“We will try a new posture next. You will need to sit up to begin with.”

A flash of disappointment clouded McCoy’s blue eyes. He didn’t bother to deny even to himself he’d been anticipating Spock arching over him.

“Interlace your fingers behind your neck.”

As he obeyed the instruction, he felt Spock slide in behind him. A knee nestled into his lower back.

“Lean back into me.”

Spock’s touch was light as he guided McCoy into position. His spine contacted the length of Spock’s thigh and his head relaxed into Spock’s chest, surprisingly comfortably. He stiffened reflexively when Spock’s hands and forearms slid through the space formed by his bent arms and neck to grasp the sides of his chest.

“Just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In…Out…With me.”

He felt Spock’s breath ruffle his hair, took in the rise and fall of the chest behind him and the hands stoking firmly along the sides of his torso. In…out…in…out…. Their breathing synchronized quickly, easily. 

“Breathe in.”

This time the instruction was louder, a little more authoritative. McCoy’s answering breath was deeper, filling his lungs almost to capacity. When he huffed out on command, he felt Spock’s grip tightened momentarily on his ribs at the same time as he did something that caused his back to release and then totally relax. His exclamation of pleasure sounded post-orgasmic even to his own ears and he was beyond caring what it sounded like to Spock. He felt as though he’d physically orgasmed as well, even though he knew he hadn’t. 

“You may move your arms now.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Move. Arms. It was easy just to let his left arm flop to his side. He felt Spock quickly pull his arm out from its position trapped beneath McCoy’s and almost uninterrupted continue working on the magic points along his chest and down onto his abdomen. Somehow his right hand moved up and back to find Spock’s neck where his fingers settled into a gentle stroking motion. 

Time passed too quickly for McCoy’s liking. He found himself being eased onto his back. “Do you want…?” He wasn’t sure he would be able to reproduce Spock’s actions closely enough to achieve the same results, but he felt he had to offer.

“Not this time.”

And Spock rose over him to get to the lower reflexes around his hips. Those spots just felt so damn good with Spock’s fingers working them. This time he kept his eyes open. 

 

It involved almost too much effort; getting up, going to the bedroom, stretching out on the bed. He would have been content to simply roll over and stay on the floor, but Spock’s common sense prevailed. This was to help him with his insomnia and his bed was the best place in which to end up. Besides, those long stokes that ran the length of his spine that finished the session quieted his mind as well as his body. 

“Spock?” McCoy reached out to grasp Spock’s hand, not exactly sure what he was asking.

“I will be here again tomorrow night.”

The reassurance was enough. McCoy closed his eyes and after a few minutes, Spock slipped quietly away.

END


	3. Chapter 3

“Spock! Have you got a minute?” McCoy put on some speed and caught up with the Enterprise's first officer. “About tonight....”

“I will be there.”

“Yes, but I wondered if you could come earlier? I've been thinking. It would make more sense if you'd actually teach me the new postures first – the hand placements, the movements, y'know – before we do them for real. Rather than on the run, so to speak. You wouldn't expect me to perform a new surgical procedure without learning it first? Besides, I'll be able to concentrate better on memorizing the technique if we're just practising.” He shot a glance at Spock's profile, but as usual, his expression gave little away, and Spock kept looking straight ahead as they continued down the corridor. 

He opened his mouth to add another of the reasons he'd worked out in advance when Spock spoke up. “That would be acceptable. I had planned to begin the preparation for the khavorta tonight – it requires a particular pattern of respiration -,” McCoy tried to interject, but Spock anticipated his questions and elucidated, “It is particularly useful for dealing with insomnia.”

“Fine. Sounds good. And you'll definitely show me that one where you had your knee in my back. You spend hours bent over that viewer of yours. I'm sure it would be good for you.” His unspoken 'for both of us' hung heavy. The interruption of an urgent page from Sickbay drew a muttered curse. “What time then?” he demanded as he turned to the closest intercom. The forty minutes earlier than their usual time was barely sufficient to McCoy's way of thinking, but he waved Spock on his way with a smile and a nod of acknowledgement and immediately turned his mind to medical matters.

~ ~ ~

Bed made, lights at full in order to see more clearly, temperature raised by several degrees, pallet at the ready on the living room floor. McCoy mentally ticked off the list of preparations. He’d covered the foam pallet with a cotton sheet, preferring the feel of the natural fibres against his skin as opposed to the synthetic foam. He’d also dwelt, rather frequently, on Spock’s shirtless state and it had eventually occurred to him that Spock’s quarters were kept warmer than ship’s norm – he and Jim almost never met in Spock’s quarters for that reason. He’d spilt the difference and set the temperature halfway between the two. Practically clad again in only his lightweight drawstring pants he was not too uncomfortable. 

There was still some time remaining before Spock was due to arrive so McCoy settled at his computer, searching once more for anything he could find on neuropressure. “Enter,” he called distractedly as he changed his search parameters to cures for insomnia. An older paper authored by the Denobulan Dr Phlox - coincidentally one of the earlier Enterprise’s CMOs, the first if McCoy wasn’t mistaken - mentioned neuropressure, but little information was given. The natural sedative properties of the secretions of Aldeberan mud leeches were however analysed in detail.

“I believe you will find this useful.” A data rod appeared on the desk at McCoy’s elbow. “I have translated my instructional text into English.”

“Why, thanks!” He picked it up and went to insert it, but Spock’s hand stayed his. 

“You may peruse that at your leisure. For now, we have work to do.” 

Spock went straight into the bedroom to change. McCoy flagged Phlox’s paper for further study and then leant back over his chair. The resultant cracks and pops served to drag him back to the present as well as relieve the stiffness in his back. He stood and lazily stretched a few times before wandering over to the pallet. He pressed his toes into the foam, absently testing the give as he waited for Spock. His gaze slid unabashedly from Spock’s face to his chest, and over black cotton-covered legs to the elegant feet McCoy found so fascinating and back up again. He met Spock’s answering look with cool reciprocity, then with raised eyebrows he nodded enquiringly at the pallet. “How…?”

“We will begin with the breathing for the khavorta. Sit facing me.”

Cross-legged, knees almost touching, McCoy and Spock breathed together. Shallow breaths that filled only the upper lobes of the lungs in which the chest barely moved, followed by several abdominal breaths of the type that small children seem to do naturally, and then full deep respirations that physiologically worked the diaphragm in the manner that would best assist with oxygen exchange. 

Spock hadn’t even laid a finger on him and already McCoy felt as though he’d entered into the early stages of the mental state the previous neuropressure sessions had taken him. Even the breathing was intimate. His next exhalation shuddered unexpectedly, and a part of him was aware when Spock’s…presence…withdrew a little.

“Normally this requires much practise, however you have grasped the rhythm and depths quickly. If you are confident you can recall it, then later I will add the pressure points and we will finish the session with it tonight. For now I will concentrate on one of postures with which you are familiar. I believe you were most interested in the sa’a-wel-plat?”

“If that’s the knee-in-the-back…” McCoy recognized the last syllable as the Vulcan word for ‘spinal column’.

“That is correct. You will assume the recipient’s posture first.”

McCoy spun around and interlaced his fingers behind his neck. His head automatically nestled into Spock’s chest and his legs stretched out comfortably in front. Spock’s voice sounded close by his ear, detailing the precise anatomical contacts of his own rectus femoris muscle with McCoy’s spine and then the placement of the remainder of his limbs and body for therapist’s posture. Anatomy classes would have been much easier like this, he reflected as he inhaled Spock’s clean scent and repeated ‘superior aspect of the patella of the stabilizing leg contacting the spinous process of the first lumbar vertebra’ under his breath. And then Spock’s hands slid in through that space between his elbows and the side of his jaw. McCoy drew a sharp breath in and almost forgot to breathe out until Spock’s soft instructions and companion respirations refocussed his mind. Fortunately, he had only the inhale-exhale regularly and moderately deeply for now.

He felt Spock’s palms cup his lower ribs. He concentrated on the initial stroking movements of the fingertips, which were not random as he’d originally thought. He twitched as the light touch tickled, but almost immediately the pressure firmed, and the sensation eased from mirthful to a shade less than sensual. Intimate. The word threaded through his consciousness when Spock’s cheek and jaw rested lightly on his head. Ganglia. Nerve plexus. Inhale. Three centimetres lateral. Circular movements. Less pressure here. Exhale. More pressure there. Concentrate. Teaching session.

“The last movement requires a deeper breath. Give the instruction to inhale firmly and in a louder voice. Your inhalation will also be deeper at that time. Extend your head. Your finger contacts must be here and here, your palms like so, and your thumbs at ninety degrees to your index fingers along the ribs, here.” Spock demonstrated, then continued, “The instruction to exhale is in the same tone and at the precise moment when inhalation stops, you will simultaneously contract your biceps, rhomboids major and minor -,” and he listed all of the therapist’s actions. “So, in slow motion, this is the action to the point of tension. Then the contraction.”

Spock’s arms slid back out through his and teaching session or not, McCoy felt bereft. He sighed and then raised a questioning eyebrow. “My turn?” He swivelled around and settled his right buttock onto his heel, and while his left leg may not have been at the precise angle it should, he managed to shift into a stable yet comfortable pose. He reached around and felt for the lower vertebrae of Spock’s back and made sure his kneecap was just so. He eyed Spock’s chest from this new angle. “Do I give the breathing instructions before or after I put my hands in position?”

“After.”

“Very well.” The skin covering the sides of Spock’s ribcage was smooth and hairless. Only McCoy’s thumbs grazed the hair at the outer edges of Spock’s chest. He lightened his touch a little to stop the dragging and felt Spock tremble. He repeated the soft downward stroke and was rewarded with another muscle twitch and a drawn breath.

“A little firmer.”

But McCoy suppressed a smile and repeated the same gentle glide. 

“A-a-ah, you m-must use more p-pressure.”

“Well, what do you know? You’re ticklish!”

“This is a neuropressure teaching session.” 

Spock’s tone was firm and McCoy swore he felt the moment Spock regained his control. He gave up and grinned openly whilst mentally filing the interesting titbit away and responding overly apologetically, “So it is.” His final stroke was firm enough and he conscientiously counted ribs and located landmarks, working the muscles and the fascia as he searched for the reflex points with some degree of success if Spock’s reactions were anything to go by. The final upward thrusting motion turned out to be difficult to synchronize and despite several attempts, he was unable to achieve the required spinal release.

“You have done well for a first attempt. It is a technique that takes some time to master and the expenditure of energy is often tiring during the training process. Would you prefer to go straight into the neuropressure session or begin a second position?” Having turned to face McCoy once more, Spock’s features gave no indication of his personal preference as McCoy weighed his alternatives. 

“You’re definitely going to do the new one with the breathing? And I’ll get another go at the sa’a-wel-plat? Are we going to do all of the others like last time or were you planning on leaving one out, due to time factors or energy reasons or something?” Not the feet, he liked Spock’s feet. Don’t leave out the feet. Or that first posture. He had too many reflexes along his spine that begged for the touch of Spock’s fingers. But he really wanted to be on his back, with Spock arched over him, hands at those places around his hips, his groin, his lower belly. “Best be the full neuropressure session, I think. It…the dreams, the voices, y’know. It helps keep them at bay,” he confessed, suddenly wanting to suppress his other thoughts.

“Then it is working. Very well, let us begin.”

Leonard lowered the lights until the illumination was a bare thirty percent of the previous brightness. He turned his back to Spock once more and assumed the first position. This time, Spock’s fingers went unerringly to the first reflex point. The tension fled beneath the gentle assault and McCoy groaned out his relief.

 

“Talk me through the breathing for the khavorta again.” McCoy found the only time he could hold any sort of conversation was during the kumal-nik, when they worked simultaneously on each other’s feet. The reflex work during the other postures was far more intense, or there was some particular pattern of breathing that accompanied it, or more frequently, he was concentrating on keeping his arousal under control. 

“Begin with the shallow apical breaths…”

He trusted part of his brain was taking in the details as really he just wanted to let Spock’s voice wash over him as his fingertips felt the smooth skin of the dorsum of Spock’s foot, noted the hair growing on his toes, found matching calluses under the third metatarsal heads and somehow ‘read’ the responses of the reflex points he worked on.

With Spock's knees against his shoulders and hands already working the pressure points at his hips, McCoy quickly forgot his frustration at again not getting the proper release at the end of the sa’a-wel-plat. He stopped thinking and just let himself feel - the heat from Spock's hands and from Spock's body, where it radiated from the groin that was inches above his face. He felt too his own body's reactions and allowed it was all good. All so very good.

McCoy took the sudden, deep, shuddering breath in through his nose, which then sighed its way out and signified the completion of a posture. He closed his eyes and lay bonelessly on the pallet. He felt Spock ease back over him and rest on his heels a moment before rising and moving away. It was too much effort to ask Spock where he was going.

“Here.”

The glass of cool water Spock offered after assisting him into a sitting postion was exactly what Leonard needed. 

“Do you wish to stop now?”

“I think I could sleep all right, so maybe not the khavorta tonight – I don't want anything else new in my brain. If you could just do the last one, the patam...the pat...” He fumbled for the name, but he couldn't get his tongue around the Vulcan words any more. “The one with the long strokes along the back, so I don't have to move when you're done.” He raised his eyebrows; for all he knew there may be a particular order that should be followed. Obviously there wasn't when Spock stretched out a hand to help him to his feet.

“Then we will finish.”

And eventually Spock left him, at peace for another night.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names for the other neuropressure positions not mentioned in various episodes of 'Enterprise' were cobbled together using words from the Vulcan Language Dictionary compiled by Selek.


End file.
